


Coma white

by worlddestroya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock hates himself, Sherlock in a coma, it is what it is, not really a fix it, sherlock gets beaten up, tld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worlddestroya/pseuds/worlddestroya
Summary: John goes too far - and Sherlock has to comfort him.





	

He couldn’t stop.  
Sherlocks eyes fixed on him, forgiving him before he even started, Sherlocks eyes closing before he even stopped. All this anger, and John just couldn't pull back. As one of the employees finally manages to pull him away from Sherlocks body, its too late.  
John gasps for air.

The hospital is very white. Empty. John can’t bear to be in one room with him, so he just sits there, outside, with coffee which had gone cold hours ago. He smiles a bit, cries a bit.  
Tries to blame Sherlock – again – but this time it doesn’t really work.  
“You killed my wife.”  
“You left me for two years.”  
“You are selfish.”  
He knows its not true, not really. Still, John smiles a bit, but his eyes are filled with salt and water, never spilling. As he gets the diagnosis, he can’t look at the doctor, eyes wandering off and counting the tiles.

“He’s in a coma then.” Mary annoys him, he doesn’t really want to have her around now. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t know if he ever wanted her around, not really. “Yeah.”  
“You know that’s your fault, right?” - “How couldn’t I.”

John stays at the hospital, day and night. It’s less about the hope of Sherlock waking up and more about his own restlessness. He doesn’t know what is yet to come and it scares him, and this time there is no Sherlock to take this fear away from him, no Mary to mock him for it. John stops smiling.

Weeks. Sometimes he visits his daughter. Until the paternity test comes back negative and that really kind of stings a lot, but he suppresses the sickness he feels in the pit of his stomach. At this point he doesn’t really care, he tells himself. Sometimes he sleeps at Baker Street, curled up in Sherlocks bed. Sometimes he doesn’t know how he dares to even enter the flat. His flat, Sherlock's.  
At least alcohol is a loyal companion. (and self-pity too.)

 

“John?”  
The day comes, the day John equally feared and yearned. Sherlock opens his eyes for the very first time in months.  
John doesn’t rush to see him, although he still is at the hospital every day; almost every night. He takes time he knows he doesn’t have.  
Finally, after two long days, he steps into Sherlocks hospital room with lowered head and trembling hands, takes a seat without being asked to, and keeps quiet. Sherlocks smile is a bit rusty, but he means it.  
“John, it.. its okay.”  
“No its not.” Johns answer is bitter and loud, and angry. Sherlock flinches.  
“No. But it is what it is.”


End file.
